


Great Sedatives of Man

by Rulerofthefakeempire



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, But i also got a lot of ideas, I got a lot out of ep six, M/M, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, They fuck its not too deep, i dunno man, mostly about fucking, possessive geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22196647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rulerofthefakeempire/pseuds/Rulerofthefakeempire
Summary: He shouldn’t have agreed to the bet, shouldn’t have left the river, should have snarled harsher, said all the words that would have gotten Jaskier to fuck off, should have thrown him in to the thick and murky water just to be rid of him, just so that he could go on without diversions, blessed silence, sweet Jesus he missed it.Instead when Jaskier had pointed at him and bet him five marks he’d get him to sleep before midnight, he’d only resisted once, hissing with clenched fists that he’d already tried everything, that there was nothing Jaskier could do for him, wishing so dearly that he’d known way back in that tavern, that first evening, that Jaskier would grow to be such a thorn to him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 38
Kudos: 1393





	Great Sedatives of Man

There were so many parts of this that he shouldn’t have allowed go on. 

He shouldn’t have agreed to the bet, shouldn’t have left the river, should have snarled harsher, said all the words that would have gotten Jaskier to fuck off, should have thrown him in to the thick and murky water just to be rid of him, just so that he could go on without diversions, blessed silence, sweet Jesus he missed it. Instead when Jaskier had pointed at him and bet him five marks he’d get him to sleep before midnight, he’d only resisted once, hissing with clenched fists that he’d already tried everything, that there was nothing Jaskier could do for him, wishing so dearly that he’d known way back in that tavern, that first evening, that Jaskier would grow to be such a thorn to him. 

Jaskier had just laughed, standing on the river bed in his pristine clothes, a flash of decadence in the wilderness, his tidy hair, equipped with such a feeble sense of self preservation for such a coward. 

“How could you have tried everything?” He’d laughed, “you’re a Witcher, what exactly would a Witcher know of comfort?” 

And to that, he had no good answers. Because what would a Witcher know of comfort? 

His hands had been built to crush, built to hold trembling things off the edges of cliffs, taught only the virtue of an efficient death, that to kill something quickly and well was all that he’d be able to offer this world, all that he had to give, sell, whatever. And despite every instinct that insisted he’d rather throw himself into a frozen lake for free that admit that Jaskier was good for anything, some deeper part of him knew full well that he was a bard, that bards were good for only two things; keeping adults awake after a lot of ale, and putting infants to sleep with none. 

He’d agreed, sneering, even if it was simply in the hope that someone else would be in control for a while, that with every muscle aching, every limb weary, eyes stinging, heart slow in his chest, he at least wouldn’t have to think about where to park his horse when he eventually slid off and hopefully died. At least then he might get some sleep. In those few moments of weakness, snarling at him by the river, skeptical but weak, he’d let Jaskier take Roach’s reins, let him walk along beside them down the path towards the town, kicking him every now and again just to break up the endless nattering, the constant chatter as he cataloged the betrayal of his since spurned beau. 

Jaskier had led them to an inn like a northern bird migrating home, drawn back to the nearest saloon or tavern, banquet hall or dining house, homing in to wherever people were eating, drinking, offering to share, wherever they were embracing the extremes of life, the chiming rejoice of victory or the sobriety of the funeral vows, tended to by a bard that could be soft spoken when he wanted to be and a few good rounds of ale. He’d paid for the room with Geralt’s money and it should have bothered him, it all should have bothered him, he should have found it irritating, found him irritating. Instead he just snarled at everyone who dared look at him and trailed behind Jaskier as he went around with his coin purse. 

He couldn’t remember the last morning he’d seen with rested eyes, the last problem he’d answered with anything but exhausted mirth, unable to summon any response that didn’t lead to the baring of teeth, the drawing of swords, either for the job or those delivering it to him. He was so fucking tired. He was so fucking _tired_. And yet, every bed he made for himself was uncomfortable, every midnight met waking, staring up at the sky, feeling as though he was running out of time before the dawn, before he’d be left barren and sleepless for yet another night, yet another day running on nothing, every reserve empty, every reservoir of sense or energy depleted. He could feel his own body only like a brittle cavern, as though he was constantly on the verge of collapsing in on himself, in on the space that should have been full and reinforced, impenetrable. 

If he’d been strong he would have told Jaskier to fuck off and get his wiry little fingers out of his coin purse. 

Instead he’d allowed him to try, risking five of his marks on whatever a bard might know of comfort.

And so he found himself, naked in a bath in a tavern, vacantly listening to him as he explained in intimate detail how his lady had deserted him so. Geralt’s eyes followed him as he circled the bath, arms around his knees, sunk low into the warm water as Jaskier played with the herbal oils he’d produced from his bag, lavender and rosemary, sweet smelling and stupefying, meant to stupefy him to sleep. He watched in silence knowing full well that he’d already tried bathing as a cure, albeit not in a bath but rivers had done just as well for as long as he could remember.

“See,” Jaskier rattled on, “I think this is problem. I mean it’s not your fault, but it wouldn’t kill you bathe with me a little more often.” Jaskier sat down behind his head as he spoke, on a stool drawn up behind the basin, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair tucked behind his ears, all his glamour removed, down to his final layers of perfect clothing, Geralt allowed to see him like this where no others were permitted. A kind of naked of his own. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d been bathed by Jaskier and the process was familiar, comfortable, always bathed as though he was a machine, made of gears needing to be oiled, maintained, taken apart to be put back together, like he had a purpose to perform and he’d perform it better with less muck between his toes. Jaskier muttering each time that he couldn’t ‘ _sing songs about a man that smells like onions, nothing rhymes with onion, Geralt.’_ And each time he’d be forced him backwards into a basin to dig the dirt out from under his fingernails, scrubbing him down until he was free of earth, grime and sweat and old blood, made new again. He washed him as though the scars could be scrubbed away, as though he’d be different, better afterwards, Jaskier always looking at him as though he was.

“You think I need to be clean to sleep?” His voice came out a growl, but from behind him there was hardly a pause, no flinch, not a whisper of fear. And it made him think bitterly that he doubted Jaskier had ever been afraid of him, even with the violence written so clearly across his knuckles, the rage stitched into his every piece of armour, the reputation that preceded him in every town they visited. It was as if he could see him only for the opportunities he represented, eyes so hungry, hands so greedy, Geralt could only be a possibility to him, for money making, song material, a card player, a betting partner on trivial matters, whatever he was looking for, he had decided that Geralt could be. As if he didn’t understand how absurd that was. 

“Thats not it,” Jaskier dismissed him, reaching down into the water, “eyes closed.” Geralt barely managed to do so before Jaskier poured a bucket of warm water over his head and he grunted in surprise, feeling it trickle down the back of his neck and down his cheeks. “You don’t know anything.” 

“Do not belittle me, Jaskier,” his voice was rough, biting, angry, always so fucking angry. 

“I would,” Jaskier conceded, “but I really cannot stress how easy it is,” Jaskier pushed his hand into the water again, “eyes closed.” More water was dumped over his head, Jaskier’s fingers moving through his hair, against his scalp, against the muck hiding there, washing it out with lavender and warm water, different than the river, than the woods, than the road, knowing that this was how humans lived, what they aspired to, what they meant when they said they wanted things. 

He figured that civilisation in its purest sense was a bath, was the dirt washed away. 

He listened as Jaskier placed the bucket down beside the bath, his fingers still moving through his hair, setting about him like he was work, like he was a project, moving like a carpenter with a hammer, the poet with the pen, to wash the dirt away, make him new again. And he couldn’t help but close his eyes as Jaskier began to push a comb through his hair, humming to himself as he worked, armed with that patience he showed so infrequently, pulling at the knots and tangles, slowly unraveling them until his hair could be combed and put straight, welcomed back to civilisation, to being tame and unafraid. 

And despite his resistance, his eyes closed in the bath, his rage, his agitation gave way to exhaustion, too tired to maintain hostilities in a warm bath, watched only by a man he knew to be careless, naked in a thousand intricate ways, allowing himself to grow unspooled like thread tossed across the floor, to grow limber and soft as his hair was combed and Jaskier sang. He was heavier now than he’d been in days, as close as he’d been able to get to sleeping for weeks, weak willed and nearing the end of this journey, waiting for whatever greater fatigue there was to take him and let him die, be it sweeter to expire than to live with the endless waking at least. 

Jaskier pulled the comb through his hair long after it was all untangled, the blunt tines against his scalp, running fingertips against his skin, tucking loose strands behind his ears over and over, his knuckles stroking down his face, every movement slow and easy, purposeless, singing old songs, running fingers through his hair, as he leant his head back into his hands.

And it was… it was nice, it felt nice. 

It felt nice just to be touched by him, not a whisper of violence in it, no mirth, no barely smothered resentment, just touched; as though he too was a small and harmless thing, as though he was a being that could recognise comfort, even if he could produce none of his own. And it made him wonder if all humans lived like this, if this was what they sought to protect when they honoured his services, when they asked for a deliverance, a death, if what he did when he hunted was simply remove any thing that would seek to threaten this feeling. 

But he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t help the snarl as his eyes opened, like a force of habit, a habitual flinch, the hunt afoot, knowing that he was the threat here, that it could only be him to destroy this, that always destroyed it. 

“Is there any point to this, Jaskier?” 

And yet, nothing dissipated, the hands not stilling in his hair, Jaskier laughing through his song, still warm, still settled. 

“I think you seriously underestimate how sedating it is to feel cared for, Geralt,” he chuckled, running his hand up the back of his head to shake out his hair and watch where it would fall, loose and almost dry. “To feel fat, fucked, and taken care of, those are the three great sedatives of man.” And that made him wonder, made him wonder if that was what this feeling was, this warmth that had lodged itself in his chest, hands on his shoulders, sleeves rolled up to elbows, to comb hair simply so that another won’t have to raise their arms to do so, touched, if this wasn’t civilisation he was feeling, but something older, more human, softer. 

“I am not a man,” he murmured, some attempt to be dry, some attempt to be regular, to be cruel, to be the destructive force he knew himself to be. 

“I know,” Jaskier laughed, “but it’s no matter.” He felt Jaskier stand behind him, hand still weaving through his hair, leaning over his head as Geralt sunk deeper into the water to look up at him, Jaskier, his Jaskier,water splashed onto his shirt, the first few buttons undone, all collarbones, exposed throat, so light,pure confidence, “get dressed and I’ll go get us some bread.” And then he was gone, disappearing from the frame, hands gone from his hair, his skin gone untouched by him, and instantly, instantly the bath went cold. 

He found himself rising in a rush as something hungry began to stir in his belly, water spilling off his body as he looked around for him, knowing suddenly what he wanted, moving silently as he made a thousand silent choices about how this evening was going to proceed.

The door got to three inches open before he forced it shut, Jaskier’s hand around the knob, standing over him, with something animal in his chest, roused by the way he’d touched him, the way it had felt. It had been so difficult to catch his scent though the lavender and the soap, but as he leant down to him, hand against the wood of the door, it filled him, the smell of his skin, the smell of his hair, the way he always smelled, like fresh timber and tobacco smoke, new growth, the coming spring, everything about him intoxicating, making his chest rumble with hunger. 

Geralt kept him trapped where he was, caged by him, his other hand curling around his waist, pulling his body tight against his own just to feel the quick inhale of air as he pressed his nose into the crook of his neck, into the soft skin of his throat, the veins he could feel throbbing there, heart rate rapid. And for the first time since they’d met by the river, Jaskier was completely silent, held against him as Geralt pressed his mouth into his neck, to taste his unbathed skin, the soft mixture of sweat and wine and humanity. 

The only sound he uttered was a kind of stuttering moan, leaking out of him through gritted teeth, as though for the first time in his life he didn’t want to hear the sound of his own voice. But every little noise, every break of momentary control, every shudder as Geralt nipped at his ear with his teeth, it all maddened him, forcing Jaskier harder against the door, holding him still as his hand traveled southward, groping at him over his shirt, so much skin yet to explore, so much to be smelt, touched, fucked, what have you, he wanted it all. 

He pressed his hand between his legs, palming him over his trousers, pleasure flushing through him as Jaskier all but melted against him, hard under his hand, groaning and shuddering, forehead against the wood of the door as he shook, breath leaving him in gasps. 

“Good,” Geralt found himself murmuring, eyes half lidded, voice husky, “good.” 

“G-Geralt,” his voice was breathless, panting against the door, “what-what the fuck are you doing?” Geralt just palmed him harder, increased the pressure, grinding against him with every bit of savagery he still had left in him, as though he couldn’t feel his teeth getting sharp in his mouth, the desire to hunt rolling through him, to catch, to hold and capture. 

“Shut up,” he hissed, changing his route like a stage coach going too fast around a corner, moving fast and forceful like a hunter handling a snared animal, never letting his hands rise entirely from him, passed from one grip to another, released only for a half second, for just long enough to spin him around and press his back against the door. Somewhere in the movement, Geralt found his wrists and pinned them above his head, holding him there, some feral part of him wanting him helpless, at his mercy as he pressed himself against his body, cock hard against his belly, wanting all the contact he could get, one hand holding onto his wrists, the other locked around his jaw, to keep him from turning away, eyes on him. 

“Jesus Christ-”

Geralt cut him off, half knowing that once he got started talking he probably wouldn’t be able to stop, pressing his mouth against Jaskier’s, rough and forceful, breathless, wanting every soft part of him to be his, every unfamiliar patch of skin, every gesture, ever utterance. Hungry, so fucking hungry. And against the door, Jaskier was pudding, mouth forced open, kisses hot and openmouthed, moaning against him, gasping into his mouth as though he could feel that hunger too, both of them starving for those three great sedatives of man; fat, fucked, and cared for. 

He thrived off every pant, every moan, every shudder and shake until he couldn’t bare it any longer, until it hurt, until he could see himself taking him right there against the door, until he could see no other future for himself but fucking him until he cried out, until every living thing on this planet would be able to smell Geralt on his skin. 

“The bed,” his voice came out like a command, but raspier, thick with desire, Jaskier’s nod shaky, lips swollen and red, breath hitching with the stimulation of it all, so perfectly undone, coming unraveled just the way he’d wanted, every act dismantled, every performance over, no scripts, no well thought-out lines, just Jaskier looking at him with a kind of clouded thirst, flushed cheeks, hair falling over his eyes, letting himself be captured, wanting to be captured. And the sight of him was intoxicating, like the scent of dinner caught on a distant wind, certain that he wanted nothing but to devour, to feel him quiver, make him feel some ecstasy, watch him dissolve into pitiful gasps, he wanted his spine arching, his body shaking, wanted him dumbed down to grunts and moans, no words left. 

But most of all, he wanted him naked. 

He found his fingers traveling downward from around his wrists, his other hand down to his throat, still pinned against the door with his hips, and if he’d ever been dexterous, precise, all that precision was gone. His fingers were dull andrough, Jaskier’s shirt ripped apart to the sound of six golden buttons clattering to the floor, staring down at his pale chest, so much more to be captured, dominated, all pearly skin and sweet smells, his belly moving with panic, heartbeat fluttering. 

“Hey,” he hissed, a shadow of himself in his voice, half way out of his stupor at the sound of his property being damaged, “this is a nice shirt, you brute.” 

“It was.” 

He all but threw him towards the bed, Jaskier yelping with the sudden movement, forced down onto his back on top of their rented sheets, Geralt crawling over him to keep him down, legs held apart, one boot thrown over his shoulder followed by the other, leaning forward to drag off his trousers, his underclothes, until he was just lying there, scratch marks on his hips, naked as the day he was born, gasping out hot breaths. And every thought revolved around him, around his body, the feeling of his skin so soft, uncalloused, still new, still perfect.

And every part of him groaned to touch him, to see him covered in marks, evidence of hands, of this room, of that feeling, he wanted it obvious, wanted it clear, that even when Geralt wasn’t there, he wanted it written across his skin that if he was touched without permission he’d break their fucking fingers. He’d break noses for this, slit throats for this, just to fuck him, feel his body fucked beneath him, to hold on to whatever this human feeling was, this sedative to all the parts of him that might have been able to see sense, every part of him that couldn’t sleep. 

“Open your mouth,” he found himself grunting, Jaskier hips flush against his own and bent over him, one hand beside his head, the other holding onto his cheek, unwilling to let him look way, the air hot with steam around him, every part of him pained with the waiting, with wanting him so badly, his dark hair splayed out on the white sheets. 

“What-”

“Open your mouth.” 

Geralt pushed his thumb past his teeth, somewhere between practicality and impatience. A moment later and Jaskier was sucking his thumb into his mouth like it was a dare, fingers around his wrist, something obscene in his gaze as he dragged his tongue down his index finger. And something dangerous and burning filled him as he stared down, unable to think of anything but the feeling of his tongue, the insides of his cheeks, of Jaskier with two of his fingers in his mouth, sucking them from the tips to the bases, treating them as tenderly as he’d treat a cock, looking at him as if making him promises about all other things he could do. 

And it made some animal in him howl, that sight, barely keeping himself from flipping him over and loosing all of his control, just to get some relief from the pressure, his cock straining, belly full of molten warmth, watching Jaskier cover his fingers in spit, making them slick enough to push inside of him and get him ready for what Geralt wanted to do to him because it was nothing sweet. 

Jaskier spat them back a second later, pushing his hand back to him, released from his vice-like grip. 

“That’ll do,” his voice was breathless, gasping, a kind of eagerness to him, legs wide around his hips of his own accord, barely moving as Geralt readjusted, knowing himself to be nothing gentle, knowing that Jaskier was at least wanting this as well, that the hunger was thick in the air, thick with wanting, such a well made destruction, all of it coming together as if it had been planned. 

The first finger was easy, slowly pushed past the tight ring of muscle, Jaskier all but unbreathing beneath him, his belly shaking, nails digging into his shoulder, eyes wide at the ceiling even if he could tell that this wasn’t the first time he’d done this, executed this procedure, this delicate preparation. The second finger was harder, Jaskier letting out a grunt and a shudder, legs spread on his back, breath let go only in his hitching gasps as Geralt touched him inside and out, thick fingers, teeth snarling into his chest, nipping at his collarbones, listening to his breathing, his heartbeat rapid and irregular. 

His forehead shone with sweat as Geralt fucked him with his fingers, shameless even naked in front of him for the first time, shaking as Geralt pushed roughly in and out of him, up to three, determined to coax out whatever sounds he could, quietly pleased by every shudder, approving of every gasp, of the archipelagos of purple growing around his throat. 

“Oh, Jesus Christ” his voice was paper thin and breathless, a ghost of his regular tone, all the song squeezed out of him, hips raised, “I don’t have time for this.” 

And for the first time, Jaskier began to resist, rearing up from beneath him and pushing him back even as he grunted in protest, desperate hands reaching for him, trying to keep him down, keep him still, keep him captured, a growl reverberating out of him. But Jaskier wasn’t scared of him, not even in this state he was in, quicker than he was, forcing him onto his back, pushed down into the mattress in a half second. Jaskier straddled him, lips parted, panting, a smile curling at then corners of his mouth as if he could tell Geralt was just about rabid, his cock hard in the crevasse of his buttocks, unhinged by his soft skin, by his hands on him again, touched, it drove him insane, a hungry madness bursting through him as Jaskier enjoyed himself. 

Between his thighs, Geralt was stuck just staring at him as he stretched his arms above his head, showing himself off, grinding down on his cock as he did, a kind of teasing, testing the limits of what he could do with a man like Geralt on his back for one of the first times in his life, breathing hard like a hunting dog chained, not in charge, barely in control. 

“Now,” Jaskier’s voice was a wisp, eyes on him, so beautifully unafraid, “you just lie there and let me take care of this.” 

Geralt watched with his breath locked behind gritted teeth as Jaskier reached behind himself, eyes unmoving, watching him with a grin, watching his expression change, watching him bare his teeth as he stroked a finger slowly up his cock before he took it in his hand, watching every part of him go tense like an elastic band pulled to the point of snapping, made feral by the feeling of being touched, knowing that it was different when it was Jaskier, felt different. Jaskier knew him, knew him down to his sleeping patterns, to the name of his horse, to the way he polished his knives in the evening, liked his meat cooked and ale drunk. Jaskier knew him and touched him with all that history in his fingers, touched him and sent lightening up his spine, wet with come, heart beating fast and dull in his throat, hands fisted in the sheets as Jaskier began to ease his lithe body upwards, positioning himself, his spidery hand just grazing his cock. 

“Don’t forget to breath, Witcher,” Jaskier laughed as he hovered over him, looking at him through his sweaty fringe. 

“Shut. _Up._ ” 

Jaskier grinned at him, one hand on his stomach, thin shoulders shaking, and eased himself onto his cock in one fluid movement. 

And the tightness, the contact, the heat was blinding, a loud grunt forced out from between his teeth, back arching in their sheets as he tried to find a way of keeping himself together through it, through the waves of fever, to keep ahold of everything keeping him from becoming an animal, panting, huffing with the euphoria. Jaskier’s head flung back as he landed against his belly, all the way in, letting out a deep sigh as Geralt all but writhed beneath him, nails dug into his plump thighs, holding Jaskier on his cock, forcing himself up into him, seeking out depth like a drowning man searching for the surface. And it was good, good on so many levels, good, so good, pulsing inside of him, so hot, so hot he could hardly breathe, could hardly think a coherent thought, think anything that didn’t concern Jaskier relaxing on top of him, breathing shallow, hands on his stomach, gasping as he began to ease himself up again. 

A half second later and Geralt slammed him back down again and they were really going at it, nothing graceful, nothing tender, almost panicked, desperate, Jaskier panting on top of him as they fucked, begging for every thrust, fucking himself on his cock as Geralt pushed up into him, grunting, the pressure mounting like a dam fit to burst, reaching up to grasp him, digging deep into him as he ran hands up and down his back, seeking skin, time, contact, touch, sucking at the sweat pooling in his collarbones. He couldn’t bare it, every movement jutting, rutting, knowing now that he never wanted to fuck someone like this, never wanted Jaskier fucking anyone else, never wanted anyone else undoing him like this, never wanted him apart from him, taken by someone else. 

“G-Geralt,” Jaskier’s arms were around him, every part of him shaking, quivering, shuddering, “Geralt,” gasping into his ear, covered in his scent, in evidence of him, burning from the inside out, finding rhythm so expertly, breath short, hands weak. And Geralt wanted him weak, so close, so close to coming inside of him, so close like a cannonball in the half seconds before combustion, made of molten gunpowder, only able to use his animal words, teeth finding the tender skin of his throat and biting down, finding every sensitive part of him and touching him there, ruthless, desperate. 

He dug his fingernails into Jaskier’s side as he flipped him onto his back, Jaskier squeaking in surprise as Geralt forced his spine back against the sheets, legs wrenched open, still inside of him, all teeth, all huffing breath and desire writhing around in his groin. He didn’t take a moment to adjust, didn’t take the time to recalibrate, just began to thrust forcefully into him, as fast and as hard as he could, as Jaskier began to cry out from below him. And the sound of it, the smell of sex, thrusting so hard that the bed shuddered with the movement, that Jaskier had to brace himself on the headboard as he gasped and screamed, he’d never felt madder. 

Geralt just thrust harder into him, refusing to let up until it grew so hot that he felt himself spill inside of him like a volcano erupting, so hot that it was blinding for a moment, only white as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he groaned, Jaskier coming a second later with a stuttering shout, “oh-holy-holy _fuck!_ ”

And all he could do was fall down next to him, rolling onto his back, breathing hard, Jaskier the same beside him, covered in sweat and come and lavender oils. He had no idea how long he just lay like that, the afterglow hitting him like a brick to the back of the head, a sweet soreness in his hips, blood drawn around his shoulders where Jaskier had held on to him, breathing going slow and deep, eyes closed, and it was blissful, this feeling, post-orgasm, in a tavern bed, every single part of him going slack and weak. 

At some point Jaskier got up, humming again, moving around the room, the sound of water splashing, of something being picked up off the ground, soft footsteps, Jaskier talking to himself before he returned to the bedside. 

“Hey,” he felt a knuckle poke into his cheek, “are you sleeping?” 

Geralt forced his eyes open, creaking like gates on rusted hinges, blinking up at him standing over the bed, dressed in one of Geralt’s cleaner tunics, hair pushed back from his face, a peppering of marks on his neck, his sharp collarbones, eyes slow, inattentive, a sheen of tiredness covering him, trying to crawl into bed with him. 

“I am not.” 

“Great. Move over please.”

Instead he reached up and dragged him down by the waist, arm hooked around him, his body so light to him, so much smaller, so much more breakable, but even if he was fragile, a delicate thing, he was fearless, at least of him, laughing as he was dragged down into the sheets, letting himself be held on to, giving his body away knowing that Geralt wanted it, that he was wanted in this bed. And it felt shameful to seek that feeling, like a weakness, wanting to feel his hands on his skin, wanting Jaskier in his arms, wanting to wrap him up and keep him still, needing him to keep the wildfire kindled in his chest, to keep him warm. 

But even with that sense of weakness in his chest, he couldn’t help it now, couldn’t help how he just wanted to be at rest, like a great river, all he wanted was to pool into a lake and sit steadily, listening to Jaskier settling down against him, spine heavy against his chest, Geralt’s arm around his waist, nose buried in the back of his neck. 

The last thing he felt before he let himself drift off to sleep was the feeling of Jaskier’s fingers tracing lines against the back of his hand, humming to himself, close at hand, touching him the way he wanted to be touched, so distantly aware that he’d thought Jaskier a fool to find all answers in him, so much so that he hadn’t even begun to consider how many answer Jaskier had brought him in return. 

And there were so many. 

**Author's Note:**

> Listen I got two out of three sedatives. By this point I was too tired to start fucking around with banquets and such. Forgive me.


End file.
